Patria Is Furry
by Citalopram
Summary: Grantaire and Enjolras share an apartment. Grantaire adopts a kitten. And then several more kittens. Enjolras can't take it, Grantaire thinks it's hilarious, and the Amis all end up involved in a decidedly unrealistic ploy to make their fearless leader realise that the only thing that's ever been good for him has been in the adjoining bedroom this whole time. Modern AU, E/R.
1. Chapter 1

**Welcome, dear humans. As my first note, I would like to say this: I haven't written anything in a very long time. But this idea was cultivated between myself and a good friend, so this is for, and dedicated to, her. So Scarlett, this entire story is for you.**

**As a second note, this did not - and does not - _begin_ as an E/R fic. It starts as them being room-mates and friends, and may well progress as such for a chapter or two. If you squint you may see hints. Not to fear, I have the end worked out and it is most definitely E/R.**

**Apologies in advance if anyone is OOC, because they will be, I assure you.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Les Mis in any way/shape/form.**

* * *

The small apartment Enjolras and Grantaire shared resided above a sweet-smelling flower shop aptly named 'Belles Fleurs' that was owned by the spacey, poetry-penning Jehan, who always had more flowers in his intricately braided hair than in the actual shop, and a slew of admirers - male and female alike - that visited all day from the nearby university.

It was for this reason, mostly, that Enjolras had deigned to take the place on. Grantaire, he felt, needed to do something with his life other than skip classes and drink himself into unconsciousness every night. The hope was that Jehan might teach Grantaire something useful - like how to woo another human being - that might keep him out from under Enjolras' feet for longer than the five minutes it took to high-tail it down to the corner shop for more wine and put a _Gossip Girl_ DVD into the player.

Alas, Enjolras' hopes were dashed upon returning home from class on one Wednesday in midsummer to find his room-mate playing with a white ball of fluff that he kept addressing as 'Charlotte' with his free right hand as his left clutched a bottle of red wine that was threatening to stain the cream sofa at any given moment. Grantaire had adopted a kitten. Called Charlotte. This was, in his eyes, the beginning of the end.

Every Wednesday henceforth, Enjolras was greeted with at least one (usually more like three) new additions to the household, and always with a name more ridiculous than the last. By the fourth week of this, and at the very least twelve kittens roaming the two-bed one-bath apartment, Enjolras found himself in the doorway of the kitchen, contemplating his route to the coffee table which currently housed his laptop. The one with the very important Politics essay stored on it.

In the moment that he made a definite decision on his route, two things happened:

One: Grantaire slammed the front door open with his foot and dashed in with a winning grin on his face and not one, but_ three_ new kittens in his grasp. He proceeded to place all three carefully on the cream couch and nestle between them and the cushions (artfully picked by Courfeyrac, of all people, to match the décor), grabbing a half-empty bottle of wine from the previous night from the floor. Enjolras stared, not believing that Grantaire had for one, left the door open for the kittens to escape, but also not even bothered with 'hello' for once. That was his routine; enter, hello, wine. He never faltered in it. Enjolras _liked_ that routine.

Two: Charlotte, the first kitten to intrude on Enjolras' life, arguably the one that brought his whole existence crashing down in a single bat of blue-eyed fluffiness, jumped gracefully onto the coffee table and peed on Enjolras laptop. Actually _peed _on it. Enjolras could see the spark from the battery from across the room.

The only thing left for Enjolras to do was pitch a fit. He had tried reasoning when the fifth kitten had come home. He had tried anger the week after. Now, it was time to moan at his friend to _get rid of these goddamned animals._

"Grantaire, get these kittens out of our apartment," He tried calmly, voice breaking up an octave after 'kittens'. He pressed his hands to his eyes in exhaustion. However, Grantaire was obviously either ignoring him, or just relishing his pain. Perhaps both, for the twitch of his cheeks that Enjolras could see gave away the sadistic smile he was hiding as he played with one of the new kittens.

A small black bundle of evil took a swipe at Enjolras' trouser leg.

"Grantaire, I don't _like_ them. They're a nuisance and you can't even look after yourself let alone this… _horde_ of animals." He nearly shrieked as the black thing assaulted his leg for a second time. Enjolras swooped on it, grabbing it by its scruff and lifting it up at arm's length, naturally, with the mind to stare it into submission. "I don't like you." He told it with a sneer. Apparently, the kitten didn't like this much, as it hissed in response and attempted unsuccessfully to claw at both the arm holding it and the face of the evil-doer. He dropped it unceremoniously and watched it dart off to the curtains (not matching the décor of the room, but that of the bathroom – "You can't have curtains in a bathroom, but you _need _these curtains!" Courf had said) to scale them and sit atop the curtain rail.

"What was that, dear Enjolras?" Grantaire finally asked, turning to face his friend with a coy smile playing about his lips.

"I said get rid of these monsters," Enjolras replied, trying to restore his calm exterior after the assault.

Grantaire merely cocked his head and said, "I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the sound of cute," gesturing wildly to the myriad of cats throwing themselves over the floor and rubbing their backs on the coffee table legs.

A moment of challenging silence passed between the two of them before Enjolras strode out of the apartment, slamming the door with such force that the window in it rattled dangerously and several kittens scurried for cover behind Grantaire's legs.

_That will teach him_, he thought as he hurried down the iron steps that led to the street behind the shops, leaving the apartment to the mercy of Grantaire and his obnoxiously-named kittens.


	2. Chapter 2

**Yo. I clearly got _way_ too into this story, and most of this chapter is filler. Actual story and more people will happen soon. But I laughed writing this because Courfeyrac is so OOC it's just funny. Also, if you don't like the word 'penis' or 'wanker', I suggest you turn around immediately. I theorise that there may be more swearing as the story continues.**

**And if anyone reading hasn't noticed, this is just a bit of a crackfic, seeing as it was thought of and initially written in the middle of the night.**

**Also, big thanks to Scarlett who drew the cover image for this! **

**Disclaimer: I do not own Les Mis in any way/shape/form.**

* * *

Enjolras retreated to the relative safety Courfeyrac's maisonette that resided a mere three streets away. After the not-quite-showdown at home, Enjolras needed somewhere where he could take the time to decide _exactly_ how to ruin Grantaire's miserable cat-addled existence. Perhaps he could get a hold of some nuclear weapons – his politics professor would surely have some interesting contacts in that department – and nuke the cats from space.

But no, that would be far too messy and he almost wanted the apartment intact. If not for himself and the fact that he lived there, but for Jehan who basically lived in the shop below. It would be most unfair to destroy his life along with Grantaire's.

Courfeyrac's place stood below one other maisonette and between three others – one on either side and one at the back. It _used_ to be a gay strip club before being converted into housing for the more affluent students at the university. Since Courf had considerable money – which honestly, no-one had any clue where it was coming from - he had overseen the entire construction of his house and this led to it being rather eccentric in appearance inside and out. He still had the neon sign from the bar above his front door and Enjolras was never quite sure if it was supposed to be a flamingo or a giant penis. In addition to this 'original feature', smack-bang in the middle of the living room was a chromed steel dance pole.

This pole extended right through the ceiling into Courf's bedroom and was kept solely for 'entertainment' purposes. (Admittedly it _was_ quite entertaining when Courf threw parties and the attendees got so drunk that they thought it would be a good idea to try dancing on it. Once or twice that ended with an ambulance outside.) Enjolras thought that anything considered 'entertainment' in the bedroom should not also be practised in the living room, but Courf was wild and this made Enjolras wary of even sitting on the sofa just in case something _unsavoury _had taken place there.

"So Grantaire has adopted a hundred kittens and you don't like them, so you've come to live with me?"

"No. He has_ fifteen_ kittens and I'm staying here until they are gone. I'm also trying to work out how to adequately destroy Grantaire, and obviously he can't be present for that."

Courfeyrac picked up an apple from the suspicious 'fruit bowl' (there happened to be a packet of condoms also in the bowl, for some reason or another. There was a similar bowl in the bathroom, guest room and kitchen) and tucked his legs beneath him on the sofa. "You're a natural politician. You'll find a way to annihilate him." He scoffed, taking a huge bite of his tasty treat and spraying apple juices all over Enjolras who was uncomfortably shifting on the sofa because he kept noticing _odd stains._

Enjolras wiped his cheek with the back of his hand with mild irritation from the apple juice shower. The two friends eyed each other suspiciously before Courfeyrac burst into uncontained laughter, bits of apple still in his mouth. Enjolras narrowed his eyes at the disgusting act.

* * *

The morning sun hit Enjolras clear in the face when 8am rolled around, and he had to blink rapidly before being able to see anything past the shining light of the dance pole that bounced around the room like a glitter ball.

Sitting up slowly and rubbing his eyes of sleep, he became faintly aware of a booming sound emanating from above him. Wandering upstairs, dressed only in his underwear and the white t-shirt that he had been wearing yesterday, he knocked on Courfeyrac's bedroom door once and perhaps unwisely, didn't wait for a reply before entering.

What he saw in that room will indeed haunt him for eternity.

Picture this: a bedroom wallpapered entirely in what appears to be gold tin foil, a huge bay window and no curtains, a four poster bed off to the right side with a mirror hung on the ceiling above it for god-knows-what purpose, and a clashing mahogany dresser. The décor was _abysmal_ – especially for someone who had kitted out his friends' apartment with surprisingly classy furnishings.

But the décor wasn't what was going to give Enjolras nightmares. Oh no. It was the image of Courfeyrac swinging dangerously around the dance pole and thrusting his hips in time with the beat of what sounded, to Enjolras, like a bad Ke$ha song. What made even this unfortunate morning encounter worse was Courfeyrac's attire – pink cotton hotpants and red tank top, and for some reason, paired with his glamorous Ray Ban sunglasses.

Now, Courfeyrac was a Musical Theatre student and as such, he could dance well, and did so often. He took just about every dance class available at the university, but Enjolras remained in doubt as to the existence of a class that could actually teach him to swing around a pole in the proper manner.

Continuing to rotate on the pole, Courf spotted Enjolras and yelled above the music, "I told you it was good for entertainment!" With a wicked grin and a loud laugh.

Enjolras remained quiet and merely raised an eyebrow before retreating to the bathroom to take a hot shower in the hopes that he might a) clear the image of Courfeyrac dancing on a pole from his mind and b) destroy the underlying scent of cat that had somehow seeped into his pores and followed him mercilessly.

* * *

That same morning, Grantaire woke up from his wine-induced sleep at close to midday, with a kitten poking its tabby nose into his crotch. He giggled stupidly and rolled over; right onto a small Burmese kitten that squeaked liked a mouse and darted straight off the bed, smacking into the wall and falling onto all four paws unhurt but dazed.

Scrambling out of his tangled sheets, Grantaire lunged for the kitten and scooped it into his arms, cooing to it as if he were a pigeon on top of a chimney.

"I'm sorry kitty, I didn't mean too!" The cuteness had turned him. He was officially soft. But for the first time, he noticed how quiet the apartment has been since Enjolras stormed out. Normally, there would be some bustle about the place by now; a running shower, the toaster popping up crumpets for a hasty lunch or even Marius and Courfeyrac arguing over whether Marius' girlfriend Cosette was prettier than the girl with nice legs in Courf's dance class.

Now, there was nothing but the mewing of kittens hungry for their missed dinner and late breakfast.

Placing his feet on the hardwood floor, he picked his way across to the kitchen, poured dry cat food into a single plastic bowl – one used for popcorn when Enjolras allowed it – and set it down to watch fifteen kittens some running at the same time. It made him feel like Jesus and his cat disciples.

An arguably much more interesting story than the one already put forth.

Musing on his improved version of The Last Supper, Grantaire changed clothes and went to text Courfeyrac, whom he suspected that Enjolras was staying with.

_Yo, Enj with you? – R_

A beep three minutes later told Grantaire that Courf was probably led on the sofa watching a _The Real Housewives of Orange County_ marathon with his phone tucked neatly into the waistband of his sweatpants, as was usual of a Thursday afternoon.

_Yh just wnt to tlk 2 his politics prof. Smthing bout busted laptop tht kitten peed on? – xoxo_

_Type properly, you wanker,_ Grantaire scowled. He was always half drunk and even he could type better than Courfeyrac. Either way, with Enjolras talking to his professor, it gave Grantaire well enough time to wrap his 'present' to Enjolras and plan a surprise visit to Courf's in order to deliver it.

Thinking that he was utterly brilliant, Grantaire rubbed his hands in evil delight and set about finding his cat carrier.


	3. Chapter 3

**Can we talk about words that have different spellings in Britain vs America? Because that's really annoying. So if you're American and you think something is spelt wrong, sorry bro but I'm from England so we spell it all differently. And I have a thing for blatantly making up words and using them.**

**Moving on, there are warnings for this chapter that include: swearing, definite illusions to sex, a****nd Enjolras getting the shock of his life because he has _feelings_.**

**Disclaimer: I do in any way/shape/form own Les Mis.**

**And what Combeferre quotes to Enjolras is Nietzsche, so I don't own that either, unfortunately.**

**Ps. Thank you to those of you that have reviewed/favourited/alerted this story. It says something ****that I began this in the middle of the night and people still want to read it.**

* * *

Outside the air was warm enough to not bother with a jacket, for which Enjolras was thankful since he had left the apartment in such a mood that he'd clear forgotten to take anything with him. He was even wearing yesterday's clothes which he'd had to sleep in.

He refused to borrow anything from Courfeyrac on the basis that anything he owned big enough to fit Enjolras probably belonged to someone other than Courfeyrac (courtesy of being left behind after one of _those_ nights) or had sparkles. Courf had quite the penchant for anything with sparkles.

The walk back to the maisonette after negotiating an extension to his politics essay with his professor was unusually pleasant for a place so usually filled with vapid there-for-the-fun students that Enjolras so abhorred. Most had finished their school year early because they were taking the 'less challenging' subjects and had already headed home for the summer. It suited the green campus to be quiet and natural again.

Of course, the calm was broken the moment Enjolras left the campus and turned onto Courfeyrac's street. Yelling, screaming, shouting, it got louder as he neared the pink neon sign that indicated his destination. On the assumption that Courf was arguing with the television (as he was prone to do) again, he was mildly shocked to find Grantaire calmly taking all of Courfeyrac's yelling as he sat on the sofa with a flask in his hand, quietly snarking at everything thrown at him.

"Stop yelling," Enjolras half complained, half commanded as he shut the front door with his foot. Instantly both men fell silent.

Grantaire however, couldn't keep his mouth shut and quipped, "You look fucking awful." To which Enjolras scowled.

"Why don't you sleep on Courfeyrac's sofa next time and we'll see how good you look the next day?"

Grantaire held his hands up, palms facing Enjolras in mock-defence. Grinning manically, he reached over the arm of the sofa and produced a grey cat carrier that was mewing in quiet remorse. No, this could not be happening.

"I brought you a present,"

Courfeyrac groaned and slapped a hand to his forehead violently.

"You did not bring a cat here, Grantaire."

"I did." He released the kitten, and to Enjolras' dismay it was the little black one that had so violently attacked him the day before. Not only was Grantaire trying to torture _him_, but he was also trying to torture _Courfeyrac_. "Well, I think I'll be off then. Enjoy your present." He pushed off of the sofa and ambled to the door with the carrier swinging in his grasp. At the door, he turned to look at the stock-still Enjolras and said, "His name is Lucifer, by the way." And left with his customary 'I win' smile etched onto his face.

_How fitting,_ Enjolras mused as he looked at the bundle of black fur. The kitten stared silently at the two friends before jumping to the floor and winding around Courfeyrac's legs, purring amicably. The sensation of fur against his denimed legs was clearly amusing, because he sniggered and bent to pick the kitten up. Cradling it in his arms, he decided that maybe one wasn't so bad.

Only, it wasn't just one, was it?

* * *

Over the next few days, Grantaire returned to the maisonette at random times of the day with the sole intention of gifting Enjolras with kittens. By the following Monday, Courfeyrac was feeding up to ten cats with packet ham before heading off to do Courfeyrac-y things in town.

Enjolras stayed behind, determined to finish his Politics essay for the second time. He was propped up on the floor in front of the sofa surrounded entirely by sheets of paper and the kittens that had sat on them when and unexpected visitor called.

Combeferre, who appeared to have a key (it wouldn't be a surprise if he had a key to everyone's homes for pure entertainment), came through the door holding two cups of coffee – Starbucks, naturally, because Enjolras' obsession with the capitalist system made watching him drink coffee from arguably one of the biggest corporations in the world was just too amusing an opportunity for Combeferre to pass up – and a folded newspaper under his arm.

"Enjolras, I thought you might still be here," He greeted cheerfully, careful to notice the kittens playing at his feet so he didn't accidentally step on them. Even though they were at Courfeyrac's, he knew that he would be answering to Grantaire if anything were to befall the furry bundles of joy.

"Well I'm not going back to Grantaire until he apologises for the cats. And gets rid of them." Enjolras responded distantly, gaze not moving from the word processed document he was fervently working on. With a raised eyebrow and a scoff, Combeferre placed one coffee on the table in front of his friend and leaned back to sit on the sofa.

"Sounds like a lovers tiff to me." It was meant as a joke. Kind of. But the response it elicited from Enjolras was almost comical. His head snapped up, and his body stiffened; fingers stopped their fast-paced dance across the keyboard.

Enjolras had never, in his three years of living with Grantaire – on campus for their first year, and off for their second and now third – thought that their other friends would have seen their situation to be anything but platonic and driven by the need to share the rent somehow. The thought spiralled within him, unravelling memories of touches and words and accidental glances from Grantaire that he thought he had forgotten and had never quite reciprocated.

It was true that he had never looked at anyone in a romantic way before – women, men; it didn't matter because no-one held his attention or pulled his interest. But Grantaire had always been there, at home waiting, as his friend and his roommate and usually the only one that would listen to his rants about politics for hours on end with nary the sarcastic remark between.

Certainly, Grantaire annoyed him no end with his clear alcohol abuse and obsessive Gossip Girl watching, but there was still something that made Enjolras want to be at home, with him, cats or not.

Combeferre, seeing that his friend was in some form of deep emotional turmoil, rolled his eyes and sighed, taking his own unfinished coffee with him as he made for the door, feeling that this was a wasted trip. Just as he reached the door, he turned his body slightly to catch Enjolras' eye and recited something that he had read in one of the books from his extensive collection: "Love is a state in which a man sees things most decidedly as they are not." And promptly sauntered out with his coffee and newspaper to find someone else to visit. Perhaps Joly and Bousset would take some time from their Musichetta to ease his need to tell everyone about the recent developments in the Enjolras-Grantaire situation.

Enjolras was left with a deep scowl and lack of appropriate words to yell, so he settled with Grantaire's favourite word and muttered, _"Wanker,"_ after his absent friend.

This was not love. Whatever it may be, it was not love, of that Enjolras was certain.

* * *

Courfeyrac returned home at three thirty, their mutual friend Joly in tow. As soon as Joly, the pre-med hypochondriac that he was, saw the kittens he balked and pulled a travel size bottle of hand sanitizer from the back pocket of his grey jeans and proceeded to slather it all over his hands.

"So Combeferre tells me that you are a man in love. With our Grantaire, no less!" Courfeyrac cackled with his devilish grin and flopped down on the sofa next to Enjolras.

_You and Lucifer deserve each other…_ Enjolras grimaced.

"Combeferre is an idiot. I am not in love with Grantaire. I am not in love with anyone, save my country and you know this."

"Yeah, yeah. Patria, mistress, we get it. But come on, you must have some…" He took the risk and poked Enjolras' chest with his index finger, "_carnal desires_ in there somewhere!"

He was met with a raised eyebrow and a sceptical look that scared him back into his own space on the sofa.

The sound of a sneeze permeated the air. Both Enjolras and Courfeyrac abandoned their semi-argument to look at Joly, sat in the only chair that he deemed 'clean' in the house. He was holding a hand over his mouth and nose with a look of utter horror reflected in his eyes.

He sneezed again, his face contorting and scrunching unimaginably. Again and again and again; Joly kept sneezing until he finally had the breath to say, in that blocked-up way that people with the flu speak, "I think I'm allergic to cats."


	4. Chapter 4

**Quite possibly about to commit after writing this, and it's companion piece.**

**But yes, there are changes about to come: one being that this is going to take a rather drastic and dark turn for pretty much everybody involved. I'll be putting up a companion piece to this story, which you really must read directly after this chapter, and before the next, in order for everything to make sense. I assume you all know where it can be found.**

**There aren't any warnings for this chapter. In fact, I don't think there's even any swearing. Oh wait, no, I lied.**

**Disclaimer: I do not in any way/shape/form own Les Mis.**

* * *

The revelation of Joly being allergic to cats sent him literally running out of the door to the campus doctor – ironic, since she was only a few years older than they were, and constantly misdiagnosing students (one time in particular she diagnosed a sexually transmitted disease as a cold sore, which caused a fair few problems with the more_ active_ students), but Joly trusted her unequivocally with his constant imaginary ailments.

Courfeyrac and Enjolras exchanged glances, one amused and one solemn. The smile faded from Courfeyrac's face as he studied his friend. He could tell the calm before the storm days before it hit, and there it was on the horizon, plain as day.

"What's wrong?" What wasn't wrong with Enjolras, would probably be a more prudent question. And since the News 24 channel was on in the background, Courfeyrac was betting that the following rant was going to be of a political or social nature.

_Social-justice-blogger-Enjolras ENGAGE!_

"This whole government system is_ bullshit_. The fat cats at the top are funnelling money from us, as tax payers, and especially as students, into private accounts that pay for their luxury homes and lavish living. No wonder we're still in a recession," He shifted his body uncomfortably, in such a way that Courfeyrac knew that he wasn't quite finished, "They have the money to put it all right again themselves, without making cuts to public spending on education and health care. They just refuse. It's all scare tactics, a way to keep the common man in his place."

And that was the thing about Enjolras: he could see the problem alone as immediately as he would open his eyes, and the solution would follow soon after. Still, Courfeyrac found it his place to keep Enjolras on his toes and challenge him always.

"And what do you propose? Communism? You know that's as impossible as monarchy or democracy – it only ever ends with dictatorship. At least with democracy the people have a choice as to who their dictator is."

Enjolras looked on thoughtfully as the news ran in the background. Courfeyrac had a point. Politics was inherently corrupt and by extension, so too were the people who practised it. As he sat there, in the silent contemplation that his entire life's work and ambition thus far might very well end in him being the most detestable man in France, Courf's phone buzzed on the coffee table.

Enjolras saw Grantaire's name flash at the top of the message. Courfeyrac lunged for it and dragged it up so it was inches away from his face.

_SOS EMERGENCY MEETING MUSAIN. DO NOT BRING ENJOLRAS. – R_

"Uh, I have to go," The phone was slipped into his pocket and he waltzed, in that conflicting care-fee caring-too-much way he had mastered somewhere in the first year of his Musical Theatre degree, out of the door with a leather jacket thrown over his shoulder, "Let Joly in if he comes back!"

And he was gone with a_ click_ of the door, and the news switching to the local weather. Sunny, cloudless and seventeen degrees of heat.

* * *

"It's a Monday night. Why'd you call us here, Grantaire?" Eponine moaned, pulling at a loose thread on her oversized sweater. The barmaid of the student bar The Musain that she was, Eponine was notorious on campus not only for her quick wit and ability to know anything about anyone (due in part to her Investigative Journalism major) but also for her shabby-chic style that encompassed several decades worth of accessories: multiple rings on her fingers, layers of necklaces and belts, boots that looked like they once belonged to an officer of the royal army. Her dark hair was always messy, and most people figured that her body probably had a multitude of scars thanks to the heinous conditions of the family from which she originated.

Besides this, no-one present was paying attention to her grumbling seeing as she was behind the bar, wiping down glasses and keeping everyone in spirits – especially with the bottle of absinthe that she had hidden under the bar _in case of emergency_.

Grantaire surveyed his friends with hazy eyes and a bottle of Sambuca in his hand, "Anyone seen Joly, Bousset and Musichetta?" His speech was coherent, a clear sign that his tolerance to drink was sky high after years of abuse.

Courfeyrac was fiddling with his continually buzzing phone, Jehan was biting the end of a biro whilst reading something from his spiral-bound notebook and Feuilly, covered in paint, was picking flecks of bright orange from under his fingernails.

Bahorel watched Feuilly with a certain disregard for everyone around them, imitating his exaggerated attempts to rid himself of paint as Marius held onto Cosette as if she was the only think anchoring him to this group of rebels.

"And Combeferre," Feuilly added absently, still picking at his nails. Courfeyrac wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and chuckled lightly, face lit by the glare of his phone.

"Whatever, I need your help," Grantaire continued before being oh-so-rudely interrupted by Eponine.

"That's usually what SOS means, 'Taire." She threw her towel on bar and with her elbows, lent casually on it.

"Shush." Several of the group burst into laughter at their exchange. "Look, I can't get any more kittens. The shelter said I have too many already." He scraped the bottom of his shoe against the polished wood floor.

Jehan moaned mockingly, "No more kittens?" Truthfully he had become quite fond of the fluffy things that kept invading his shop and hiding in massive bouquets of flowers. It was good entertainment to watch customers faces when an unsuspecting kitten leaped on them after being disturbed from slumber.

Grantaire scowled.

"I need the kittens. They're part of my master plan."

Eponine sighed again, "Is this the_ 'get-Enjolras-to-realise-you're-madly-in-love-with-him'_ plan? Because I don't think the kittens are helping."

"Yeah, if anything they're making Enjolras more irate than ever. You know he nearly kicked Lucifer the other day?" Courf chipped in. A murmur went round the table, until finally the sweet, blonde girl spoke up.

"I'll help you, Grantaire." Cosette's voice rose above the boys. She was smiling prettily in her yellow sundress. She was arguably the nicest girl any of them knew, and It was no surprise that she'd ended up with the fumbling Marius, who above all was in this because he knew of nothing better to do. She was diplomatic and polite, of exceptional beauty and fierce intelligence. Given half the chance, she could, and would, trivia them all under the table.

"Thank you!" Grantaire roared, "See, Cosette cares about my feelings!" Spoken with a sneaky glance in the way of Eponine, who grumbled, _"But Enjolras doesn't,"_ under the breath.

Another laugh ran through them, ended only by Grantaire's lazy but hateful glare.

"Okay, I'm in too." Jehan shut his notebook and stored the biro in the spiral binding with a curt nod. The others followed suit, each nodding reluctantly.

In fairness, they were all sick to death of Grantaire's unrequited love and his increasingly impossible schemes to have Enjolras notice him. Chances were, this 'master plan' of his would be another disaster that would land all of them in the dog house with Enjolras – again. But they were willing.

A rarity for his cynical nature when drinking (the depressive quality of alcohol mixing with, according to Psychology major Cosette, his already low dopamine levels which basically made him unhappy), Grantaire smiled.

The plan was as follows: each of the Amis would go to the animal shelter and adopt a kitten. Then, they would deliver the kitten to Grantaire. And presto – he would have more kittens with which to somehow win over Enjolras. Although, he conveniently left out how the increase in kittens would get Enjolras home. Because it probably wouldn't.

The only person who had not agreed to the plan was Eponine. She was finding it difficult to bring herself to help Grantaire in his ridiculous love life when he had never bothered to help with hers. Given that the pair had been friends since they were children growing up on the same street, she had expected him to at least show some sympathy in her desire for Marius – especially when his feelings for Enjolras mimicked hers.

In all the years Grantaire had never believed in anything – his Nilhism and alcoholism deepening and spiralling – he'd found in Enjolras something for which to live for. The only problem was when Enjolras showed affection for nothing besides Patria and Politics; Grantaire wasn't even a blip on his radar, just someone who would share the rent.

For Eponine, Marius was the first boy to look at her without seeing only the titanium shell in which she had cocooned herself. He didn't mind that she was scarred both physically and mentally from years of living with her parents. He was her first love, but he didn't love her back – and she was obsessed with this fact, consumed by her want for him to love her. Undoubtedly, Eponine was in love with the thought of being loved.

So yes, Eponine and Grantaire both suffered unrequited love, but only one had the guts to do anything about it.

The group filled their glasses, mostly with the secret absinthe but a fruit cocktail mix for Jehan, and simultaneously raised them above the table, glass clinking on glass and chiming as wedding bells.


	5. Chapter 5

**Somebody shoot me already. Apologies for the long wait - I had so much trouble with this chapter, and I don't even know why.**

**Anyway, this is the shortest chapter I have written, and I spent eight hundred words talking about Combeferre at the cat shelter. And then I break every characters heart simultaneously.**

**Please remember that you need to go and read the companion fic _The Bad Before the Worse_ before you continue on with this chapter! It is vital that you do so, I believe.**

**Disclaimer: I do not in any way/shape/form own Les Mis.**

**PS. Thank you to all of those who have reviewed, followed and favourited. You are my sunshine(s) and I love you.**

* * *

The _maison pour les chatons égarés_ was a low, long building that was once perhaps used as a warehouse and resided in the less affluent area of the city. Windows had been smashed into the red brick after its initial construction, which gave it the distinct air of being used for less than legitimate business at some point.

Probably by the French Mafia. Or Something.

The front of the building with big white double doors looked fairly inviting, if not like something Jehan would construct outside the flower shop. There were hanging baskets filled with rainbow flowers on either side of the awning, four huge clay pots that contained what appeared to be small rose bushes and several dangling wind chimes. In all: Hippie paradise.

_Fancy, for a cat sanctuary_, Combeferre thought as he advanced on the doors and brushed up against one of the wind chimes. Grantaire had called him the night before to fill him in on the 'master plan', seeing as he had missed the SOS for falling asleep on his philosophy notes and an essay about the cultural implications of the hierarchal educational system. He had agreed to the plan as a way to get Grantaire off of his case – Grantaire was nothing if not persistent – and with the smallest hope that maybe, just maybe, the plan might work and Enjolras would go home soon.

Inside, it smelt like cats. Really very badly of cats. So much so that Combeferre couldn't help but wrinkle his nose in disgust. It was hard not to equate the smell with a still-drunk Grantaire three days after a party, having not showered once and throwing up all over the kitchen. Because that happened on more than one occasion (thankfully Enjolras usually dragged him home and threw him in the shower fully dressed when he got to this point).

Behind the reception desk, a brunette girl in a blue flannel apron was holding a kitten to her chest and rubbing it fondly on the head. The kitten purred and burrowed into her shoulder at the attention. Upon hearing the wind chimes ringing, the girl brought her head up and shook the brown curls from her face with an apologetic smile.

"Hi, what can I do for you?" She asked in a small voice. Combeferre placed his palms face-down on the counter, and observed the gold embroidery on the flannel apron that said 'Aster'. Her name, he assumed. She crouched down and placed the kitten in a Moses basket at her feet, and when she came back to eye-level, Combeferre noticed that her eyes were very odd. One was of a pure blue, not unlike those of Enjolras, but the other - half was hazel with a green centre and the rest the same blue as the other. Partial heterochromia, he recalled, thinking that Jehan could write some exceptional poems about this girls' eyes alone.

In any case, he cleared his throat and garbled out, "I would like to adopt a kitten," because really, he didn't want to adopt a kitten. He was being forced to adopt a kitten to somehow make his best friend realise that the guy in the adjoining bedroom wanted to bang him. It was all very confusing.

'_Master plan', my foot, _Combeferre frowned in his head, while Aster squeaked happily at him and ran to his side of the counter.

"Well, right this way, Monsieur!" She took his elbow and led him through a pair of blue double doors into a short, white hallway, at the end of which there was another pair of double doors, this time green. Through the two rectangular windows, he could see wire mesh cages.

The cages lined the walls, five high, and in them were a maximum of three kittens. Suddenly, he could see why Grantaire kept bringing them home; these conditions were dire. The cages were not sufficient room for them, purely because there were _so many_. It was a surprise to him that there were this many cats in Paris, let alone the average sized room.

And they were all crying, wailing, mewing, at the intruder – Combeferre. Next to him, Aster was wincing, clearly troubled by the noise.

"I'm sorry, it's just awful in here. I'll get the paperwork for you." She stepped away, back towards the door, "Go on, choose one." And she was gone again.

The noise ran straight through him as he moved in front of the cages. Each and every kitten was vying for his attention, rubbing their backs against the metal and purring when they felt it necessary. It was a numbing experience. Maybe a cat revolution would be the next mountain for Enjolras to climb.

One kitten, a ginger and white one that was a little bigger than the others, didn't cry at all. It looked directly at Combeferre as he passed with blue almond eyes and then turned its back on him when he knelt to the cage to look at it better. The kitten glanced back with a look of vague uninterest, and then returned to licking its paw.

Combeferre decided immediately, and without cause, that this was the most perfect kitten to give to Grantaire to give to Enjolras. Sassy, ginger ball of fluff.

* * *

Four phones rang at the same time across campus.

Enjolras, still at Courfeyrac's maisonette. Jehan in the flower shop. Grantaire led on the sofa with a bottle of wine. Marius queuing in Starbucks with Cosette.

"Enjolras…" Combeferre; calm.

"Jehan!" muffled sobs, but clearly Courfeyrac.

"Taire? Taire, are you there?" A frantic Eponine.

"Marius, fucking listen to me… oh God, no, this isn't right…" Angry, screaming Bahorel and Feuilly in the background.

_"Joly's sick. He's in the hospital."_

* * *

Enjolras gripped the phone so tightly he wondered why the flimsy iPhone hadn't snapped under his fingers. Somewhere, he faintly recognised the voice of Combeferre calling to him, saying his name over and over, telling him not to come to the hospital.

His blood had run cold at the word 'sick', and turned to ice at 'hospital'. No matter how much he was considered marble, he could still feel. And right now, he felt so much he thought his brain or his heart or maybe his spleen would spontaneously burst under the pressure.

"I'm going home," He mumbled at the phone before throwing it onto the sofa and haphazardly throwing clothes into a bag. His only thoughts were centred on Joly and getting home to Grantaire.


	6. Chapter 6

**So, I might be gone for a little while - two weeks maybe. I'm going on holiday next Sunday, and I'm sure I'm going to have very little time between now and then to update (thank you very much school and exam season). On the plus side, I'll be back by the 29th and will have had two four-hour train journeys in which to write. Thus, there will be a lot of chapters installed after that date.**

**This chapter is dark. Very dark, and may be triggering for some people, so please be wary. I don't want any of you to get hurt.**

**Warnings: self harm, suicide attempts, fluff.**

**Disclaimer: I do not in any way/shape/form own Les Mis.**

* * *

Even the lights of the street did not illuminate the pavement quite as they usually did, of which Enjolras was vaguely aware of as he sprinted the three streets home, only to find the apartment trashed from top to bottom and in complete darkness.

And strangely cat-free. There wasn't a mew to be heard.

He let the door shut with a _click_ behind him and flipped on the light, lest he walk around the place blind. Dropping his bag on the floor next to the sofa, Enjolras felt unease creep into his bones; something was out of place, something that wasn't the books scattered across the floor and the smashed bottles littering the carpet. He took to Grantaire's room and, as customary, knocked and entered before receiving a reply.

The bedroom was more trashed than the living area – it was more of a war zone, more like there had been a platoon with their guns on full fire shooting the room apart. Smashed bottles oozed liquid across the floor, the night stand and accompanying lamp were overturned and the curtains had been pulled from their rail and lay crumpled on the cream carpet. Evidently, Grantaire had already been told about Joly and had taken it hard.

And then there was something that made Enjolras' breath hitch in his throat; Grantaire, motionless and sprawled as if in sleep on the white sheets of the bed, an empty whisky bottle at his side, inches from his fingertips stained with ink and leaking the bitter amber fluid.

Inches away again lay the blister pack of prescription pain killers Grantaire was given when he sprained his ankle and which he refused to take, preferring to numb the pain with alcohol. It was empty.

The math, in this case, was simple.

Not knowing how long Grantaire had been unconscious terrified Enjolras to the point of insanity – he felt the ground shift beneath him and for a moment he thought he might faint, but he remained on his feet long enough to make it to the bedside and check for a pulse. His fingers pressed against the clammy skin, Enjolras could feel the faint beat of blood. It was so light and delicate; he knew that he had to be fast if Grantaire was to be saved.

Ignoring the wobbly ground, Enjolras took Grantaire under the arms and dragged him from the bed to the bath, dead weight slowing but never stopping him. He didn't know what he was doing as he hauled his friend into the bathtub, actions fuelled only by the desire for him to wake up and revere him with hazy eyes once more.

Enjolras wrenched the chrome handle of the shower into the _on_ position and let the water run, leaning over the unconscious man, clutching his dark hoodie with both hands and shaking him, begging, pleading, _praying_ for him to wake.

With the sudden realisation that the drugs Grantaire had swallowed needed to be out of his system, Enjolras pulled him up by his jacket and promptly stuck his fingers into his friend's mouth. It wasn't pleasant, and Enjolras would have never considered doing this a week ago, but now – right at that very moment – he would do anything at all to save him. This was a life that he refused to give up on, and he'd be damned if he let the only person to ever make him truly feel anything close to love slip from his grasp.

After only seconds, Grantaire's body began to react to the intrusion; he retched and gasped for air, retched again and vomited, the cold water washing most of the acid and half-dissolved pills into the drains of Paris. The smell of acid and alcohol made Enjolras himself gag, but it was at least worth it to see Grantaire's blue eyes open and stare into his own with amazement and a nagging edge of betrayal.

Sinking to his knees, still gripping Grantaire's hoodie tightly in balled fists, he allowed himself to breathe in relief before feeling the boom of anger vibrate through his chest.

"What do you think you're _doing_, Taire? Do you want to end up in the hospital with… with…" The reverberation of fury didn't last long enough for him to finish; it was eclipsed entirely by the feeling of adrenaline draining from his veins. He dropped his head to the cold porcelain of the tub, never once loosening his grip on Grantaire, afraid that if he did he might never be able touch him again.

"Yes."

Enjolras shuddered at the simple, truthful response. He'd long known that Grantaire had problems – he'd just never imagined that they could lead to this. And maybe he would never understand why they had, but he was willing to be there until either one of them figured it out.

Looking back and locking eyes, Enjolras tried to feel anything other than fear and love for the pitiful man before him.

From Grantaire's perspective, - Enjolras looming over him with his halo dark and damp from the shower, droplets running down his face giving the illusion of tears – he looked tired. Older than his twenty three.

Everything about this situation reflected them, as people; cold, wet, sick, drunk, tired, ready to kill themselves. They weren't children playing at life any more. They were adults, and life was playing them. It was time to grow up properly.

"Clean yourself up," Enjolras said, loosening his grip and letting go.

Grantaire moved lethargically to remove his sodden clothes whilst Enjolras turned his back and approached the window. He wouldn't leave the room for the fear of allowing Grantaire to be alone was overwhelming. What if something happened when he wasn't there – again? He would never forgive himself. He remained at the window, listening to the running shower, the squeeze of a shampoo bottle, the creak of the water shutting off – all the while staring through the frosted glass at the twinkling street lights, knowing that the people out there, the hundreds, millions, billions of them, were continuing on with their lives as if nothing had happened.

The noise of a still-drunk Grantaire climbing out of the tub pulled him away from a near-existential crisis. And seeing him with just a towel wrapped around his waist and stumbling out of the bathroom was not something that Enjolras had ever anticipated seeing. Shaking his head with a well-meant smile, he took Grantaire's arm and guided him to his own bedroom, which was thankfully untouched. Then he went to fetch some clothes, but upon returning, he found Grantaire already asleep and snoring lightly atop the duvet.

He looked much more peaceful in sleep than unconsciousness – but perhaps it was that Enjolras hated seeing him passed out, and always had.

So he took out a blanket from under the bed and pulled it up to cover Grantaire's bare skin, not caring that his wet and unruly curls would soak the pillows by morning. He stood deliberating at the bedside for a moment, thinking that his thoughts were playing with him.

_Did I really think of doing that?_

Acting on the impulse of a foreign thought, he leaned close to Grantaire and kissed his forehead lightly, slowly and tentatively, and left him sleeping in peace.

* * *

_"Combeferre, I need you."_

* * *

Half an hour later, Combeferre let himself into Enjolras and Grantaire's apartment, finding his oldest friend wrapped in a blanket and cradling a cup of coffee, staring blankly at the dark television screen.

Combeferre sat gently next to him, observing the shaking hands and damp hair curling around his ears, "Enjolras,"

Enjolras' heavy gaze switched from the screen to Combeferre without conscious thought.

"What's going on?" Combeferre prodded, unnerved by such uncharacteristic actions. Enjolras took a moment to respond, but finally he did.

"Grantaire tried to kill himself. He overdosed."

Combeferre's heart dropped to his stomach. The two of them were always the ones in control of everything, and immediately before them lay two situations over which they could exercise no control at all. Enjolras couldn't charm Grantaire out of suicide; Combeferre couldn't simply _think_ Joly's cancer away.

"I made him vomit it up, " Enjolras nodded to himself, sipping cold coffee. It seemed like that was the end of the story, but very suddenly Enjolras dropped his eyes in the way that meant he was about to say something personal; "I kissed him. He was asleep, but I kissed him."


	7. Chapter 7

**I lied to you all, and I am so sorry. I simply couldn't leave well alone. I had so much to say. But now, I really am leaving for a week because I'm off on holiday; this is your present.**

**Also, has anyone noticed how much I love to use semi-colons? I love them. They ****are the divine punctuation mark;;;; yeah semi-colons.**

**Warnings: Fluff, mentions of medication.**

**Disclaimer: I do not in any way/shape/form own Les Mis.**

**Ps. your reviews have made me so happy. I got caught squealing and kicking my legs around when I was reading some of them the other day. Thank you all, my little sunshines.**

* * *

Enjolras spent all night in a straight-backed dining chair, at the edge of a bed that held a sleeping Grantaire. He spent the hours of darkness drinking coffee to stay alert, and watching, waiting, not sleeping _just in case_. He'd not sleep that night, nor any night, if he feared leaving Grantaire alone.

Instead, he gave up the sweetness of closed eyes and steady breathing to watch the rise and fall of a pale chest, uncovered from dark blankets just as pale feet were. If he saw the breathing hitch, he would creep towards the bedside on his heels and lay a cold hand on Grantaire's warm skin – somewhere, anywhere. He would stir, only a little, and then breathe as normal. Somewhere around two am, Enjolras convinced himself that if he so much as took his eyes off of the man, took his hands from him, that he would stop breathing altogether.

It was only when morning dawned and light filled the room that Grantaire's eyes slid open to meet with Enjolras falling, falling, falling asleep. For only a second Enjolras' eyes were closed in serenity, and then they shot open as if adrenaline had been shot straight into this heart.

They stared each other down; blue and blue; silence palpable for seconds that ticked by into minutes.

At first, Grantaire had no idea where he was. His last memories were of being sick and Enjolras clutching his front like a life line. Everything before and after… a blur of booze and pills. All he knew was that Enjolras was there, and that was enough for the moment.

Eventually, their eyes ripped away from each other, and Enjolras left the room, door open in his wake. Grantaire sighed and buried himself back into the pillows that smelt of damp hair and Enjolras; nothing but cold summer nights and comfort. He'd gladly spend the rest of his days nestled in the cream sheets, quiet, rather than get up and face the inevitable barrage of questions surely headed for him.

A shadow, dark in the doorway, pulled him back onto his elbows: Enjolras was grasping a mug of steaming liquid in each hand. He manoeuvred around the bed with stotic features and harsh movements until he reached his chair and motioned for Grantaire to take one of the mugs by inclining his head and holding it out to him.

Rolling his body so that he was sat with legs crossed beneath him, Grantaire took the drink and brought it to his lips. So different from the harsh liquid he usually favoured, the sweet scent of bergamot told him that Earl Grey was the order of the day and, _wow_, it burned his tongue something fierce. But it was a good kind of burn, if there was such a thing.

Enjolras didn't immediately start his questioning as expected, as he would have done at any other time. He merely sat idly in the chair, drinking his own drink in short bursts of having enough energy to even raise the mug to his lips. The silence was uncomfortable, made worse by Grantaire's inability to restrain his own tongue.

"You look terrible."

But Enjolras didn't reply (if he did, it would have been along the lines of _so do you_, or _why don't you stay up all night and we'll see how good you look in the morning_, but of course, he had already used that one in the past week), he remained marble, showing only the mildest of disdain for the comment through limp hair that had dried beneath the hood of a borrowed jacket, dark circles taking their place under his clear eyes.

He was wearing one of Grantaire's hoodies.

Both men dropped their gazes, regarding their own hands with much interest, as if fingernails with dirt beneath them were more important than each other's eyes. But hands were a place where the truth could be hidden; you cannot hide truth in the eyes.

Enjolras didn't want to play this game any more didn't want to tiptoe around. He was not one of the kittens Grantaire insisted upon; he was a lion, and he would roar when he felt like it, and feel what he felt when he felt it because he was not afraid.

(But he was, and that was a problem.)

All he did to remedy this was lean to the bedside table, put his mug on polished oak and take his place on the edge of the bed, next to Grantaire. He placed a hand on his shoulder. From touching him all night, Enjolras was used to this now; physicality.

Grantaire, however, was not. It took a moment of shock running from his nerve endings to this brain before he rocked his shoulders back and then forward into Enjolras' touch. He wanted to be under his skin, not knowing that he already was in so many ways. In blood, in thought, in memory, touch, taste and sound.

"Don't…" Enjolras pulled Grantaire's face to look at him, in the eyes, "Don't do that to me again." He couldn't even be gentle when he was trying to be. And he was trying to be; to be the man that kissed Grantaire without his permission or knowledge because of a foreign thought and an impulse.

"What?"

"Last night. Don't scare me like that again."

Grantaire smiled, nodded and Enjolras' arm found its own way around his waist.

* * *

Combeferre let himself into the apartment once again. He was followed by two kittens, both of which he recognised – the ginger and white one that he had delivered the day before, and a smaller while bundle of fluff that he vaguely recalled being called Charlotte. Both were mewing ferociously, likely from having been trapped outside all night long, and they rushed for the kitchen – something which might have been tacked on to the apartment as an afterthought - as soon as they stepped paws in the door.

He followed them and mercifully poured into a plastic bowl the dry cat food that had taken residence next to the microwave. Next, he put down a bowl of water (because you don't give cats milk, dumbass) and watched them fall over each other to get to the meal. Charlotte continually pushed the ginger kitten out of the way. Combeferre smiled to himself, and then set about clearing up the mess Grantaire had made.

And he'd really done a number on the living area.

Halfway through the work, his phone began chirping Courfeyrac's personalised ringtone. Thumbs sliding across screens, he answered, "Hello,"

"_Mornin'"_ a tired voice grumbled at him. Courfeyrac had spent the night at the hospital with Joly, since his parents wouldn't be arriving until the afternoon and Courfeyrac refused to leave him alone.

"How is he getting on?" Combeferre asked of his friend, throwing yet another smashed bottle into a trash bag.

"_Still out from the Tretinoin," _He yawned,_ "But the nurses have his breathing under control. God, it sounds horrible, he's trying to breathe on his own and it screws with the machine and…"_

Combeferre almost stopped listening when he made his way past Enjolras' bedroom. Usually, the door was shut tight. But not this morning; it was wide open and within the white-washed room, he saw Grantaire asleep, on his back, and Enjolras dozing next to him, led on his stomach with one arm thrown protectively across Grantaire and lips inches from his shoulder as if he had fallen asleep in the act of kissing scars.

"'_Ferre?"_ Courfeyrac's voice made him stir and lean up against the door frame, smiling at his friends' sleeping bodies._ "I asked about Grantaire."_

"Oh, he's fine I would imagine," Combeferre chuckled, "In fact, he and Enjolras are asleep in Enjolras' bed at this very moment," The smile had not yet left his face or his voice. There was a gasp of delight at the other end of the phone, only serving to make Combeferre smile more. It was the first sound of happiness to pass Courfeyrac's lips in two days.

"_Together?_"

"Yes."

"_Well it's about time. Hey, take a picture for me, alright?"_ There was a wicked smile hidden in that sentence, Combeferre could just hear it.

"Certainly, Courfeyrac." And he grinned as he brought the camera up on his phone.

_Click._


	8. Chapter 8

**This is so short, and for that I am sorry. The two four hour train rides I thought I would write on? No. It turns out that a very crowded train carriage is not the best place for my muse. It just makes me anxious and sleepy.**

**So, in around three hundred words, I give you Enjolras' kitten.**

**Disclaimer: I do not in any way/shape/form own Les Mis.**

* * *

_Purr, purr, purr, purr, purr._

The sound of a happy cat purring incessantly in Enjolras' ear was what woke Enjolras later that day. It just kept going, and going, and going and _god damn it! _It was like somebody had left the washing machine on high speed with bits of metal stuck into it. He rolled over with the mind to smack it off the bed, but stopped rather suddenly when he saw the ginger and white kitten, curled up peacefully on the pillow next to his head and sleeping soundly.

And it looked suspiciously like him. Well, as much as a cat can look like a human.

Instead of shoving it off of the bed, Enjolras dragged one arm from under the duvet and awkwardly scratched the kitten behind the ears. It lazily opened one green eye and studied Enjolras silently, purring ceased. Then it closed the eye again and butted slender fingers lightly before beginning to purr once more.

A smile graced his lips. This kitten would be called Patria, and it would be his. His Patria. And then he thought how stupid it was going to sound when he called Patria his 'mistress', when Patria was the name of his cat. But he didn't change the name because he had settled on it, and he liked it. He'd risk looking the fool just this once.

Charlotte, white fur puffed in a windswept manner, padded gracefully into the room and jumped between Enjolras and a still-sleeping Grantaire. She settled down and curled into herself between them.

With a raised eyebrow, Enjolras rolled back onto his front and buried his head half in the pillow, and half into Grantaire's neck, briefly wondering what he was going to say when they both woke up to find themselves tangled in each other (and Grantaire still stark naked from the shower...).

That was a bridge to be crossed when they came to it.

He was asleep again in no time at all.


	9. Chapter 9

**Frankly, I have no idea what I am doing any more. This story has a few more chapters in it, and there might be a little time skip somewhere, but realistically, Enjolras and Grantaire are together in their not-quite-together-but-totally-together way, and I suppose that's the way it's supposed to be for them. There's not much need for the story to keep going, aside from wrapping up the Joly storyline and finishing up with the cats.**

**However, I am in the process of writing a Modern Zombie AU, so if any of you actually want to read that when this story is done, hit me up in the reviews just to register your interest!**

**Warnings: Joly sadness, swearing, references to sex, etc.**

**Disclaimer: I do not in any way/shape/form own Les Mis.**

* * *

Grantaire was the first to wake up, with the sun lowering in the sky and streaming in through the curtains, hitting him as it bounced off the full-length closet mirror. It warmed him before blinding him, leaving him with spots in his vision.

Crinkling his nose, he turned over, tentatively feeling the space – or lack thereof - around his body with one hand. That was Enjolras – his thigh, his hips, his ribs - and that was a kitten, and that… that was his own body, his own hips and thigh and – _oh._ Talk about _morning glory, _Jesus H Christ on a pogo stick!

Perhaps falling asleep, naked, with Enjolras kissing his shoulders and neck and – maybe that just wasn't a good idea.

Blushing profusely, Grantaire extracted himself from the sheets with careful precision, making sure he didn't disturb Enjolras. Jesus, this was embarrassing even if there was no-one to witness it.

* * *

Not ten minutes later, with Grantaire safely in the ice-cold shower, Enjolras' eyes drew open; he yawned, and searched the bed for Grantaire.

"Grantaire?" He called when he found the bed empty, save for himself and two kittens. There was a response, muffled by the sounds of running water. At least he was conscious and functional – which was more than Enjolras had initially hoped for after last night.

Falling back into the pillows, he allowed Patria to nuzzle his shoulder and then hop over his chest to torment a sleeping Charlotte.

She hissed and swatted Patria away, but Patria just kept butting her over and over. Eventually, Charlotte gave in and they settled down together, curled up on each other. Even the fucking _cats_ were homosexual.

(Which almost made Enjolras laugh, but really, he had no idea what was going on with his feelings for Grantaire and he couldn't exactly point to which side he was batting for in the whole scheme of gay-straight ideology.)

He was interrupted by laughing, a sort of repressed garbled noise, from the living room, and it startled him into moving. If Grantaire was in the shower, which he knew to be the case, then who else was in the apartment?

As it turned out, it was Combeferre and Courfeyrac, drinking tea rather civilly and holding some entertaining conversation.

"How long have you been here?" Enjolras asked, rubbing his hands over his eyes and then through the tangled curls, fully aware that he was still wearing sweatpants and Grantaire's hoodie. Courfeyrac checked his wrist watch-

"Hm. About ten minutes, wouldn't you say, Ferre?" And then a smile threatened to split his face – "We saw Grantaire running from your bedroom, he had a _massive_ – Ow!"

Combeferre elbowed him in the ribs so fiercely that they stunned themselves into silence. Enjolras' nose twitched.

"What's going on?" To be honest, Enjolras knew exactly what was going on – he wasn't naïve, he was well aware of what Courfeyrac was alluding to, and the mere thought of it made the heat rush to his cheeks.

"Yeah, what's going on?" Grantaire's voice, slightly displeased, joined the trio, all barefoot, ripped jeans and wet hair. He drifted past Enjolras (but not without ghosting his fingertips across the small of his back and making him shiver) to sit on the arm of the sofa.

"We came over to see how you're doing." Combeferre directed at Grantaire, quickly covering up the gap in conversation, while Grantaire scoffed, crossed his ankles in defence and rubbed his neck.

"'m fine." Which, you know, was a lie. But he was better than last night, and that was as good as he expected it to get for the time being. Enjolras, though, well he just wanted to touch him – to hold him, put his arms around him like they were still asleep and make him feel safe, because he could see that the attention from Combeferre was making him uncomfortable.

So he crossed the room in four long strides, ever in charge of himself, and sat next to Grantaire, pulling on his arm a little too violently and making him quite literally fall into his lap.

Courfeyrac was quite clearly enjoying the show and sniggered at the pair, only to earn himself another nudge from Combeferre.

Righting himself in Enjolras' lap, Grantaire leaned back like he'd been sitting on other people all of his life, and relaxed.

"How's Joly?" He asked quietly, careful to avoid eye contact with anyone. He could see Enjolras staring at him in the reflection of the dark television. The way the black screen made Enjolras seem demonic with black eyes was such juxtaposition from the way he normally appeared as an angel.

The smile slipped from Courfeyrac's face as he sighed.

"His mother flew in from Bordeaux with her new husband and they're with him now," His tea had gone cold, but he kept drinking anyway for the need to be doing something that was not over-thinking, "He's trying to breathe on his own already and they think he'll wake up soon and be moved out of intensive care." He sniffed and dropped his eyes to the floor.

He didn't really know what to do with himself – his friends were his whole world, and to have been there with the _beep beep beep_ of the ventilator in the white-washed, bleached room watching Joly fight the cocktail of drugs the doctors had pumped him with… it scared him. He'd not lost anyone yet. He'd managed twenty three years without attending one funeral, and it destroyed him just thinking that his first could be his best friend.

Enjolras and Combeferre simultaneously clapped their hands to his shoulders, forming a strange physical chain between the four of them; solidarity in adversity.

A delighted scream burst their quiet balloon; they all jumped at the noise and scrambled for the window.

"Zombie apocalypse!" Grantaire cackled, pulling the curtain back with one hand. They looked a sight, the four of them crowded around the window with noses pressed to the glass like nosy neighbours.

The scream had rather obviously come from the girl outside, running around brandishing a water pistol and shooting haphazardly behind her.

"Aster!" Combeferre recognised, furrowing his brow. Grantaire nodded absently as Courfeyrac and Enjolras shared a glance and shrugged. "And Bahorel, apparently." He added, illustrating by pointing to the man chasing her with a bucket, sloshing water everywhere.

"Let's go down."

* * *

The setting sun gave the street outside the flower shop a gentle golden glow –

"If you say _'nothing gold can stay'_, Jehan, I will murder you in your sleep." Aster grinned, flopping down on the tarmac next to him and wringing her hair of water.

"You know I don't like Frost all that much," He laughed, notebook and pen in hand, scribbling away. Bahorel joined them, sopping wet and shaking his hair like a dog. They both squealed and put their hands up to shield their faces.

"Oh!" Aster squeaked when she turned her face into a pair of ripped-jean legs. Her eyes travelled up, finding Grantaire stood above her, hand clasped with another. "Grantaire! How are the kittens?" She had one eye closed from the sun, but managed to make out the face of the blond man stood with him; she saw the way the fingers of his hand curled around Grantaire's, the possessive nature of their zip-locked hands. He must have been Enjolras, his Apollo, the one he had told her all about each and every time he appeared for more kittens. She smiled at the thought of his crazy cat plan actually working.

"Most of them ran away, actually," He laughed, swinging his arm backwards and forwards.

Courfeyrac had taken a seat between Jehan and Bahorel and was trying in vain to read the scribblings in Jehan's notebook.

"Ah well, they're probably better off on the street than in the sanctuary!"

A sharp _snap_ – Jehan had shut Courfeyrac's nose in the notebook, and then he laughed as Courfeyrac pouted playfully and rubbed his face. Combeferre cleared his throat – "And how do you know Jehan?"

"Monsieur Combeferre! What a pleasant surprise," Aster said, after a moment answered his question, "Literature class. We worked on a project together a few moths ago."

"Yeah, we're best friends now. She lets me braid her hair." Jehan joked, draping an arm across her shoulders.

None of them had noticed Bahorel's sudden absence until there was an almighty roar and the sound of water hitting skin: each of them soaked right through to their bones.

"Bahorel!" They yelled, moaned, squeaked and grumbled together, and then started laughing. The sun would dry them soon enough.

But until that time, Grantaire was the first to react responsibly, untangling his hand from Enjolras' and grabbing what was previously Aster's water pistol and shooting it into Bahorel's face with unaltered glee – he'd only just taken a shower, damn it!

In no time, they were all engaged in an epic street water fight, with Combeferre graciously accommodating them with buckets of water and refilling pistols from the sink in the back room of Belles Fleurs, and Jehan taking pictures of the mess with his old black-and-white film camera.

Even Enjolras had begun play (the reason Jehan had even brought his precious camera into this), taking a water pistol for himself and shooting every which way in retaliation.

"Hey, Jehan!" Aster called, narrowly missing being hit by Bahorel's poor aim with buckets, _"Stay Gold!"_ She cackled, gestured with her bucket to Grantaire and Enjolras staring each other down - with water pistols levelled at one another and mirth glinting in their eyes - and threw the ice cold water over the pair and Jehan snapped the shutter.


	10. Chapter 10

**Sorry it's taken so long. I've been neglecting all of my writing because stuff to do, you know how it is. **

**Besides that, this is penultimate chapter of this story! Only one more to go and then it will be finished! I'm not sure if I'm sad that I won't be writing this any more, or immensely happy (and slightly relieved) that I have actually finished a story at all. Usually I get halfway though and think 'bugger this' and wander off to do something else.**

**Either way, I hope you enjoy this chapter, and I'll see you on the other side!**

**Warnings: Hospital setting, cute things, sad things, illusions to sex if you squint. Or have a dirty mind.**

* * *

September rolled around quicker than anyone had anticipated. It seemed that midnight sheets made time pass without any notice; since the middle of July, the first night Grantaire had shared Enjolras' bed, he hadn't slept one night in his own. It was a natural progression for them, the inevitable evolution of their relationship, however one defined it.

(Which mostly, they didn't, because did the status of their relationship really matter?)

A lot of things remained unsure, though – this was Enjolras' final year at university, and he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do afterwards. For someone always so sure of himself, he sure didn't have a clue what he was doing. The future was coming far too fast.

Grantaire was re-taking his third year of a four-year course, but his uncertainty lay within his own mind – was he strong enough to resist the everyday, nagging pull of the bottle? Of the darkness that drew him to accept oblivion and end his own life?

They had both settled for acting like they knew what they were doing, if not for themselves or each other, but for the fact that Joly worried incessantly after them these days.

He'd finally woken up from his Tretinoin coma, and was, at the time of September, finishing his first round of chemotherapy; responding well to treatment, moved from intensive care to his own room.

Still, the visits had been – and were still – unpleasant. Grantaire had arrived the first time on his own, and first managed to lose himself in the haematology department, hands shaking because, for the first time, he realised what it might have been like if Enjolras hadn't found him when he did that night. His friends would be visiting _him_ here. He would be in one of these hospital beds.

Or worse: he would have ended up in the morgue. Despite what he had told Enjolras, he didn't want to die. It wasn't worth it.

After thirty solid minutes of wandering through haematology and oncology, Grantaire was found by Enjolras, three corridors away from Joly's private room. They laughed awkwardly at him getting lost – "Everywhere looks exactly the same!" he defended, following Enjolras closely (and admiring the very nice red shirt that he was wearing that would most definitely look better on the bedroom floor).

Joly's room was so vastly similar to all of those before it, that Grantaire was unsure if they were even in the right place until he saw him – Joly, sat up in the plastic hospital bed, thinner than healthy, waxy in pallor and breathing tubes still hooked into his nose.

It was intimidating. And terrifyingly_ real._

But his chipmunk cheeks grew with a healthy flush of red when he saw his friends, and that made Grantaire feel better. A little.

Courfeyrac was already there, as he was so often, feet up in the visitors armchair and entertaining Joly with a story of him and Jehan at yoga class.

But although Enjolras had visited the hospital before and was used to the scene, Grantaire was not. The spark of _'ok'_ that he had held upon entering the room disappeared, dropped in water, when Joly croaked his name.

Bursting from the room like a hurricane, he let the sobs rack his chest. He let his lungs collapse on themselves as he tried to breathe. There was absolutely no way for him to deal with this, this… whatever was. A feeling, maybe a lack of feeling. Just a knot in his stomach every time he even dared think.

Enjolras found him again – Grantaire had a sneaking suspicion that Enjolras would always find him – wedged on the floor between two plastic waiting chairs that stuck to your flesh even if you were wearing jeans, trying to make himself as small as possible. He sank to his knees in front of his dark-haired partner, who revered him with those watery blue eyes before dropping his gaze to the hands that were grazing his knees. His Apollo had maybe the most incredible touch when he wanted to; soft, but stern in intention, purposeful. It made him feel safe.

"Do you want to go home?" Enjolras asked, rubbing circles with his thumbs on the inside of denimed knees.

"No, I have to do this," Grantaire's voice wavered in uncertainty, even though he was solid in his decision. He was ready to prove a point to himself, to everyone, that he _was _strong enough to face his demons.

So he let Enjolras grip his hands and pull him up, and then he let him press their bodies closely and kiss his temple, affectionately wrapping their hands together as they returned to the hospital room.

Joly was mostly just delighted to see them, and happily delivered the news that he would be allowed home after 'Chemo Part One' had ended, but he'd still have to come back to the hospital every few days. And he would really have to avoid sick people because his immune system was so compromised.

Grantaire laughed at this – of course it wouldn't be hard for Joly to stay away from sick people. The circle of smiles he was surrounded with in that peppermint green room let him know something: _everything was mostly ok._

* * *

When the campus had filled itself with students once more, Enjolras and Grantaire returned to their lectures.

Grantaire actually attended this time, convincing himself that a routine that didn't involve heavy amounts of wine or television box sets was good for him. He returned faithfully to his first love: the arts. Music, mainly. Art frequently, and acting occasionally.

The undeniably proud look that Enjolras wore the first time he walked in on Grantaire playing the piano without hitch in the old wood-panelled concert room was one that Grantaire would never forget. Having someone be proud of you is a feeling like no other.

A few weeks of solid classes, and Grantaire felt alive again, even more so when he would come home and find Enjolras crashed out on the sofa with a politics textbook covering his face and Patria pawing at his chest for attention. It just felt like a proper home.

And when he nudged Enjolras awake, they would eat badly made spaghetti with half-frozen garlic bread (because the oven was on the fritz _again_) or they would order in Chinese food and laugh at stupid television shows – and Grantaire would laugh harder at Enjolras watching the news with such intensity that he got tunnel vision, because it was funny.

There was only one thing missing, and that was Charlotte.


	11. Chapter 11

**Speedy update has been speedy. I thought I was going to get one chapter out of this final storyline, but it turns out that what I wrote (something like 20 notebook pages worth) is painfully long, so I have split it into two parts. What lucky ducks you are!**

**Warnings: more references to sex, this time rather explicit, Jehan/OC, and... well I don't want to spoil it with warnings, so just be careful!**

* * *

"Enjolras, have you seen Charlotte anywhere?" Grantaire was still careful not to call Enjolras anything but his full name. Enj, Enjy, Jo-Jo – off limits, unless otherwise specified. Even when he was turning over tables to find his white, fur ball kitten.

She had been missing for a few days, and while Patria was seemingly unconcerned, continuing to crawl all over the apartment, Grantaire worried after the kitten.

Enjolras shrugged from beneath his pile of paper notes – French politicians of the 20th Century – and shuffled his feet on the carpet. Grantaire's worry made him apprehensive. His seemingly permanent frown deepened as Grantaire wandered the small living space, kicking his legs out in front of him and peering behind the television, the bookcase, just for a sign of white fur.

"Please stop that," Enjolras growled. The flick of feet in his peripheral vision was distracting (as was Grantaire in general) and it was giving him a headache. He was most certainly not adept at focusing on two things simultaneously. Grantaire begrudgingly stopped, and perched on the coffee table, scratching at the three day stubble marking his jaw that he just couldn't be bothered to shave off just yet.

Having returned to his studies, Enjolras sighed, "Have you checked your bedroom?"

"Our bedroom?" Surely they would have realised if Charlotte had been in their room the whole time.

"No," He was beginning to get exasperated, "_Your_ bedroom. The room you're _supposed_ to sleep in?" His eyes never left his papers, but he could still see the smirk taking over Grantaire's face that let him know that Grantaire got the joke. They fought about sleeping arrangements because it was pointless it was just a petty thing that kept them from arguing about the real problems. It became a joke for them.

"Fine," Grantaire sniffed, feigning hurt and strutting off to _his_ bedroom, "_Wanker_," He muttered, loud enough for Enjolras to hear.

"I'm fairly certain that's what I have you for these days," Enjolras muttered in much the same way, raising his head smirking as he did so, watching a laughing Grantaire disappear down the corridor.

He re-focused himself on his work and tried to ignore the rustling sounds from the mostly-empty _guest bedroom._ That is, he tried to ignore it until Grantaire gave a strangled noise and called for him in a wavering voice, at which point he pushed himself off of the sofa to investigate.

Grantaire was on all fours at the side of the bed, peering under the wooden bed frame into the empty space beneath. Previously, Enjolras had been under the impression that nothing could make his heart beat like the night he had found Grantaire unconscious, but apparently that assumption had been wrong. Not knowing what horrors lay under the bed made adrenaline flush through him faster than he had ever experienced. It didn't smell like death, so it couldn't be…

"You need to see this,"

He got down on his knees beside Grantaire, thigh to thigh, hip to hip, like they were one being, and with one hand he lifted the blankets up higher to look into the abyss. The adrenaline finally kick-started his body and he had three options: fight, flight, or adrenaline's lesser-known effect: freeze.

Enjolras froze.

Though it was dark in the dead space, and really rather dusty, the outline of an old FedEx box turned on its side was visible, and what was even more visible was the white kitten inside the box, stretched out, stomach distended and panting heavily though… contractions?

"Mon dieu," Enjolras muttered, backing away on his own paws as Charlotte gave a feeble hiss in his direction, "She's having kittens. A kitten. Having kittens."

"Yes, because her age is the most important thing right now." Grantaire dead-panned, his eyed glued to his precious kitten in pain, growing more and more panicked as Enjolras did _absolutely nothing. _"What are we supposed to do? Should we call Joly and ask him about labour?" His voice had kicked up an octave.

Enjolras gave Grantaire's back an incredulous look – he point-blank refused to believe that he could be so dense, even when he was panicked.

"He's a med student, not a midwife!" He scoffed in response, pulling at his hair in frustration, "We need someone who knows cats."

Immediately, Grantaire burst back from the bed, yelled "Aster!" and fled from the room, calling back as he got to the front door – "I bet she's downstairs with Jehan; stay with Charlotte!"

And then he was gone, out of another door and down the iron steps, leaving Enjolras to watch over the labouring kitten.

From downstairs, he heard a scream and immediately crawled to the door and poked his curls past the frame, desperately wondering what the scream was for. Less than a minute after: pounding on the steps concurrent with Grantaire's footsteps, the way his hips moved with each step, how he always skipped the last step before the door – and then he was back inside, all wide eyes and terrified bursts of breath.

"I think I know why Jehan won't share his poetry any more " He visibly shuddered, then rolled his shoulders back to compose himself before looking down at Enjolras, who was staring back at him with a quizzically raised eyebrow, "You don't want to know."

"I'm sure I don't." And he ducked back into the room to check on Charlotte. She seemed to be doing well, was mostly just panting, and every five minutes or so giving a mew of pain as her body tensed and un-tensed with each new contraction.

The kittens would be arriving soon – sooner than Enjolras wished, in all honesty. What were they supposed to do with new-born kittens? He was hesitant to let Grantaire keep them – and he knew he'd want to – because even though he was doing better than last month, or the month before that, every now and then he'd catch the smell of liquor on his breath as their noses brushed, when they slept pressed against each other.

It wasn't all that easy to quit, he knew. He just wasn't convinced that Grantaire was ready for more responsibility.

"Aster and Jehan will be up in a minute."

And sure enough, they walked through the door a few minutes later, haphazardly dressed (in oversized, matching sweaters) and holding each other's hands sweetly, Jehan's face flushed in red with embarrassment.

Grantaire scoffed: sweet was most definitely _not_ what he had witnessed downstairs.

"What's the problem?" Aster asked, pulling Jehan into the bedroom with her.

Enjolras pointed her beneath the bed, remaining silent as Aster untangled her hand from Jehan's and crouched to get a better view. Charlotte's contractions were coming quicker, every two or three minutes now.

"Oh!" She squeaked, as she was always prone to do, "Alright, well I've done this before,"

This was reassuring to Grantaire, as he was beginning to pace out of frustration and fear.

"Enjolras, keep Patria out of this room, and bring fresh water and food, please," She was giving them their marching orders in the politest way possible, "Jehan, some clean towels or something without a heavy scent. Kittens are born blind and deaf, so they'll need to find their mother by smell,"

They left the room in search of their quest. Aster rocked back on her heels from her crouched position, calculating the time between each contraction – still two minutes, but judging by the way Charlotte was lying on her back with her legs apart, she was ready to give birth to her first kitten.

"Grantaire, you can relax. Like women, cats have been doing this for thousands of years without help."

He stopped pacing just as Jehan and Enjolras returned, holding water, food and towels as requested. Aster hummed softly to herself as she took the towels and set them down at the side of the bed.

"Okay," Deep breath, "Everybody but Grantaire out. Charlotte won't want people around her when she's birthing,"

When neither Enjolras nor Jehan moved, she pushed them both lightly on the chest in turn, saying, "Out, out, out!"


	12. Chapter 12

**This is it ladies, gentlemen, and those who do not identify as a gender, or identify as both - this is the final chapter. I'm sad to see it go, but it's time. I've spent over two months neglecting school work and staying up well into the early hours of the morning - so much so that I have actually become nocturnal - in order to produce this. I hope some people somewhere have enjoyed the ride!**

**I must give all of you that have reviewed a huge round of applause, a standing ovation if you will, because you are fantastic, and you made my heart skip a beat every time I read what you had to say. You're wonderful, guys, truly.**

**And as a note, I'll be working on more Les Mis stuff in the future - it's Zombie AU time at my house, and that's the next project. So, see you soon mes amis!**

**Warnings: Cat labour, as graphic as I could get it in layman's terms, anatomically correct terminology for genitalia.**

* * *

"You're good at this," Grantaire mused as he lent up against the wall with Aster at his side, both of their legs outstretched before them, watching Charlotte labour away.

"I'm not doing anything," Aster yawned, her head lolling back against the wall and closing her eyes where she was so tired.

"I meant talking charge. You might even be better than Enj."

"Mmm," She glanced back at Charlotte, seeing her lightly buck, back legs spread open and cry out in pain, "Oh! Here we go, kitten number one!"

The hairs on Grantaire's arms, on his neck, stood up as he stared at his kitten – the tiny ball of white fluff that he loved – and watched her push out the head of another life. It wasn't quick, like the movies always showed childbirth. It took Charlotte a long time to expel her first kitten – at one point Grantaire thought they might need to assist her because it was taking such a long time – and she howled the whole time.

Aster reassured him that it was natural for a kitten giving birth for the first time to take some time with it.

When the kitten was finally free, after much cooing on Aster's part, and worrying on Grantaire's, Charlotte stopped howling, stopped panting, and shifted herself so she could attend to her baby and began licking it clean, removing part of the amniotic sac with each lick.

Within seconds of the membrane being removed, the kitten was breathing and moving on its own – and they could see clearly the very familiar orange and white fur.

"I think we know who daddy is!" Aster giggled, patting Grantaire on the shoulder.

But he was positively fuming.

"Enjolras!" He yelled, getting to his feet and barrelling out of the bedroom, running head-first into Enjolras (who was coming to meet him) on the way.

"PATRIA GOT CHARLOTTE PREGNANT," Grantaire kept yelling over and over, mostly because he was angry, and a little bit because he didn't quite know how to articulate any of his other feelings.

He'd just watched a new life come into this world; kitten or not, it was astounding. And he'd never felt quite so… quite so _grateful_, he supposed. Yes, he was grateful to be alive, too.

Calmly, Enjolras gripped Grantaire's shoulders, holding him steady as he tried to resist, still yelling about Patria and Charlotte and kittens.

"Patria is a _girl_, Grantaire," He tried to explain, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Unfortunately, this was not the most obvious thing, because Jehan approached the pair with Patria cradled in his arms, and shifted the cat just enough so they could observe: quite clearly, _she _was a _he_.

Enjolras blinked a few time before abandoning his hold on Grantaire.

"How did we miss that?"

Grantaire made an aggravated noise that came somewhere close to 'mnngfff', and stomped back into the bedroom, where Aster shushed him and then continued cooing Charlotte through the continuing.

"You guys didn't think to have them fixed?" Aster broke her fussing to ask when Enjolras and Jehan followed Grantaire. She frowned when she saw Patria in Jehan's arms.

He immediately caught on to her disdain, smiled as a way of apologising, and carried the cat away with him again.

"We thought the shelter had already done it," Grantaire mumbled to her, rubbing his neck and then his jaw. Enjolras stood by, looking both confused and mildly disgusted at the sight of birth.

"What's the matter, never seen a vagina before?" Aster teased, shaking her head wildly in laughter. In response, he turned a shade of scarlet that would put a tomato to shame and withdrew from the room hopelessly embarrassed.

It was funny to Grantaire, and he had to bite his lip to stop from laughing. He doubted Enjolras actually _had_, to be honest. He had absolutely no idea what he was doing the first time they had… well.

Not that Aster was paying much attention to him: her attention was on the fact that Charlotte's second kitten was coming exceptionally quickly.

* * *

An hour later, Enjolras and Jehan were waiting in the living room together, blindly watching the television with the sound turned down low enough that they could hear the quiet chatter between Grantaire and Aster in the other room.

Mostly, it was like they were waiting in a hospital – like the time they had sat outside of Joly's room when the nurses had to change his feeding tubes and it was quiet and clean.

Patria padded between them on the sofa, going from Jehan's outstretched hand to Enjolras' thigh, looking for attention.

"What have you gotten us into, Patria?" Enjolras sighed, rubbing the sensitive spot between his orange ears. The cat simply purred smugly in response.

Creaking floorboards and musical laughter floated into the living room, followed by Aster with her jumper rolled up to her elbows and grinning wickedly: "Congratulations Enjolras, you're a father!" She cackled, wandering past the pair on the sofa, kissing the crown of Jehan's head on her way to the kitchen to make them all a well-deserved cup of tea.

Grantaire came into the living room a few seconds after, grinning ear-to-ear and immediately threw himself at Enjolras, kissing him fiercely. Enjolras heaved a satisfied sigh as their lips disconnected and Grantaire said, "Three girls and a boy,"

There was a shuddering silence between them for a few moments, where it was just them and no-one else, nothing else mattered.

"Are you happy?" Enjolras asked seriously. He didn't just mean the kitten situation; he meant in general, even though he knew that happiness was subjective and fluctuated wildly.

"Yes."

And they kissed again.


End file.
